by McKayla Box
“Great.”
I lean back against my bed. All I want is to go to school without calling attention to myself and it seems like now that's going to be impossible. I don't want some sort of mortal enemy, but now it seems like I have one whether I want one or not.
Mercy taps my knee. “Don't worry. We've got your back.”
“Thanks.”
She stands. “I need to go because my mom is probably wondering where I am. I'm glad you made it home okay.”
“Me, too,” I say. “And thanks for checking on me.”
She heads for the door and smiles at me. “Duh. Chicks before dicks, Nola. Always.”
Chapter 28
“Are you ready for the week?” Mercy asks.
It's the next morning and she texted me before I went to bed, offering me a ride to school. I was grateful for the offer and took her up on it. I paid for our coffee on the way to school as a way of thanking her and now we were almost to campus.
“I guess,” I say. “I mean, I went through my calendar and stuff last night. I think I'm organized.”
She laughs and shakes her head. “Not what I mean. I mean, are you ready for homecoming week?”
“Oh, that’s right.” I have a vague memory of that discussion from the party. “That is so weird.”
She nods. “Yeah. Totally bizarre, right? At Del Sol, it's always the first week of school. Makes no sense, but it's always been that way.”
“It really is,” I say. “It was always in October or November at my old school.”
“It's always this week,” she answers. “And it's a big, overblown deal. People legit lose their minds over all of it.”
“All in the name of school spirit, I'm sure.”
She laughs as she stops at a red light. “Yeah, right. All in the name of let's do a bunch of crazy shit, get out of class, and compete for meaningless things is more like it.”
I laugh. “Now that sounds right.”
“I mean, look, it's fun and all, but it's just this thing that people go insane over. There's stuff every day, then the game this weekend, and then the dance. Classes are sort of useless, to be honest.” The light turns green and we start moving again. “So I guess that's a plus. But it is over the top.”
And when we get to school, I see exactly what she means.
There are banners and signs everywhere. Cars are decorated. The hallways are decorated. There's a buzz in the hallways that wasn't there even on the first day.
Dylan waves at us from her locker as we navigate the senior hallway, then she sweeps her hand dramatically in the air. “Ladies. Welcome to the most batshit crazy week of the year.”
“I was telling Nola in the car,” Mercy says. “Trying to prepare her.”
“Good luck with that,” Brooke says, shaking her head. “Nothing can prepare you for this week. It's like Disneyland and a traveling carnival all wrapped into one.”
An announcement comes over the loudspeaker, interrupting us and reminding us that nominations are now over.
“Nominations for what?” I ask.
“Homecoming court,” Dylan says. “Kings, queens, princesses, all that shit. A popularity contest to see who everyone most wants to fuck.”
We all laugh as the bell rings. We agree to meet up for lunch and I head toward my first class of the day, English. Someone is throwing confetti in the hallway and I'm picking it out of my hair when I get to the room.
And then I see Archer sitting in the back row.
He's stretched out in a desk that he barely fits in. He's wearing a pale blue long-sleeved T-shirt and black shorts. He's got a pencil tucked behind his ear and his skin looks even darker than it did the last time I saw him. He's drumming his fingers on the desktop, then glances up. He looks at me, looks away, then looks at me again. He raises an eyebrow.
I hesitate for a second, then walk back toward him. “What are you doing in here?”
“Good morning to you, too, Orleans,” he says.
“You weren't in here last week,” I say. “And stop calling me that.”
The corner of his mouth flexes upward. “Schedule change. Happy to see me?”
“Not particularly.”
He laughs like he expects that answer. “I'd think you'd be nicer to me after I saved your life on Saturday.”
“Saved my life?”
“From getting run over.”
I roll my eyes. “Right. You're a real knight.”
“And then some,” he says, grinning. He looks around the room. “Where's your seat?”
I glance immediately to the desk to his right, then wish I hadn't.
“Nice,” he says. “Right next to me.”
I slide into the desk. “Whatever.”
He chuckles as the bell rings.
Our teacher moves to the front of the room, takes quick attendance, and then explains that we'll start each class with a quick writing exercise in our notebooks. We'll have to turn in the notebooks at the end of each week for a grade. Today, she wants us to spend a few minutes thinking and writing about a personal goal and a classroom goal we want to achieve this school year. She's giving us five minutes for the exercise.
I pull out my notebook and a pen. The classroom goal is easy. I want an A. I need an A. Not just in English, but in every class. My grades were good in Florida and I can't afford to let them drop now.
The personal goal, though, is harder to come up with. It takes me a minute to come up with it, then another to get it written into my notebook. I can feel Archer's eyes on my, so I curl my arm around my notebook so he can't see it. He laughs and shakes his head.
I finish just as the teacher tells us time is up.
“Okay, who wants to share?” she asks.
My stomach drops. She never said we were going to have to share. I just thought that we were going to turn them in.
“Nola? How about you?”
Because of course the universe would have her call on me first.
“Uh...do I have to?” I ask.
There are a few laughs across the room.
“I guess I can't make you,” she says. “But I'd appreciate it if you would.”
I sigh. “Alright. For class goal, I said I want to get an A.”
A few people mutter “same” and I at least feel better that I wasn't the only one who though of that.
“I'm happy to hear that,” she says. “And what about the personal goal?”
I feel my face warming. I look down at my notebook. I'm trying to think of anything that I can say that's anything but what I've written on the page. But I'm blanking and I know everyone is waiting on me.
“Uh, I said I want to learn how to surf,” I mumble.
A few more laughs ripple through the room.
But the teacher nods. “Totally fair. I can't surf, either, but I have no desire to learn because I'm terrified of sharks.” She smiles. “Thank you for sharing, and let me know when you catch your first wave.”
I stare down at my notebook as a few other people share what they've written, unable to look at anyone. I'm not sure why it feels so embarrassing to have said it out loud, but it does. And even more so because Archer is sitting right next to me.
We spend the rest of class learning how she wants us to go about writing our college essays with an outline and rough drafts and due dates. Fortunately, she doesn't call on me again and I can't get out of there fast enough after the bell rings, slinging my bag over my shoulder and jumping out of my desk.
“Hey! Orleans! Wait up!”
I hear Archer's voice as soon as I'm out in the hallway, but I refuse to turn around because I am not responding to his little nickname.
“Hey! Nola!”
This time, I do stop and turn around.
He's smiling as he walks toward me, his notebook clutched in his hand. The pencil is still tucked behind his ear and his hair is pushed off of his forehead. He may be a pain in the ass, but he is not hard to look at.
“What?” I ask. “I need to get
to class.”
“Yeah, no shit,” he says. “Me, too.” He squints at me. “You really want to learn to surf?”
“Maybe. I don't know. I just needed to write something down.”
“You don't seem like the just write something down kind of person.”
I shrug.
“Do you want to learn?”
I sigh. “I don't know. Maybe. What does it matter?”
“I'll teach you,” he says.
“Yeah, right.”
“I will.”
“No thanks.”
“Why not?” he asks. “I can teach you.” He looks around the hallway. “And no one's better than I am.”
“So humble.”
“It's true.” He smiles at me. “And you've already seen me in the water. I'm sure you'd like some more of that.”
“I seriously might puke on your feet if you keep talking like that.”
He laughs. “Right. I'm serious. I'll teach you. Let's go after school.”
“Today?”
“Yeah. Why not today?”
“I don't know. I just hadn't really thought about it.”
He adjusts the pencil behind his ear. “You know what I think?”
“I don't care what you think.”
“Yeah, you've made that clear,” he says. “But I'm gonna tell you anyway. I think you really want to learn. But you're afraid.” He leans closer to me. “Of me.”
“I'm not afraid of you.”
“I think you are.”
“Well, I'm not.”
He stares at me and I can't look away from those eyes. Then he smiles at me.
“Okay then,” he says. “Meet me at my truck after school.”
“I didn't say I was going,” I say.
“So you are afraid of me,” he says. “I knew it.”
“I'm not afraid of you. Jesus.”
“I'm not that good, but I'm close,” he says, grinning. “Meet me at my truck after school and prove you aren't afraid of me.”
“I don't need to prove anything to you.”
“No, but you want to,” he says. “Don't you?”
And I realize he's right. I do want to prove it. Dammit.
The bell rings and he starts backing away. “Be there after school. I won't wait forever, Orleans.”
He's gone before I can say anything else.
Chapter 29
The rest of the day passes quicker than I want it to. I don't mention Archer's invitation to the girls at lunch, mainly because I haven't made up my mind as to whether or not to accept it yet. They are all talking about the homecoming stuff and all I'm thinking about is whether or not I'm going to go surfing with him.
By the end of the day, I've made up my mind.
I'm going.
The only real reason I come up with not to go is because I'm being stubborn.
I want to learn. That's real. And he's offering. Yeah, he seems like an arrogant prick most of the time, but we managed to navigate the buoy swim together. Why shouldn't I use him to teach me how to surf?
I can handle him.
I think.
After the last bell, I text Mercy and tell her I don't need a ride home, that I've got something else I need to do. I wait for most of the hallways to empty, then head out to the lot. I see Archer's truck parked in his usual spot and he's standing in front of it, leaning against the hood.
He smiles when he sees me. “I knew you'd come.”
“No, you didn't.”
“No? Then why did I tell the boys I was taking you surfing?”
I stare at him for a moment. “Whatever. I don't have my bathing suit.”
He smiles. “We can surf naked. I've done it before.”
“Not a chance.”
“We can swing by your house.”
“I don't have a board.”
He points over his shoulder with his thumb. “Already taken care of.”
I hesitate for a second, then walk past him to the back of the truck. I see four different boards in the bed, including one extra long one that looks a little different.
“It's soft,” he says, coming up next to me. “Because you're gonna eat shit and you won't knock yourself out on the soft board. It's bigger because it's easier to get up on.”
I look at him.
He grins. “Told you I knew you'd come.”
I don't have a comeback for that, so I walk around to the other side of the truck and get in.
We drive in silence to my grandparents, the windows down and the wind rushing through the cab. He doesn't ask for directions and knows exactly how to get there. I wonder if he just remembers from Friday night or if he's looked that up before I found him in the parking lot, just to prove he already knew my decision.
When we get there, I run inside and he stays in the truck in the driveway. Neither of my grandparents are home, which I'm grateful for because I don't have to do any explaining. I dig my bikini out of my dresser and do a quick change. I pull my hair back in a tight ponytail, then pull on a T-shirt and a pair of shorts over my suit. I leave my bag and everything but my phone on my bed and jog back outside.
“You were fast,” he says when I climb back into the house.
“It's not hard to put on a swimsuit.”
He chuckles. “You'd be surprised.”
He pulls the truck through the half-circle drive and heads toward the beach.
“You like living with your grandparents?” he asks.
I nod. “Yeah. It's fine.”
“That doesn't sound like a ringing endorsement.”
“It is,” I tell him. “They're pretty cool. And I appreciate them letting me live with them.”
“Your parents are cool with it?” he asks.
I look away from him, out the open window. “Yeah.”
“Will you go home at Thanksgiving?”
The question catches me off-guard for a moment. “Uh, I don't know. We haven't really, like, planned anything out yet.”
“Would they come out here?”
“No,” I answer, and it comes out way too quickly and way too forcefully. “I mean, I don't think so. Like I said, we haven't really talked about it yet.”
If he thinks the answer is weird, he doesn't say anything. My stomach is knotted. I hate lying. Or, rather, I hate feeling like I'm hiding the truth. Because that's exactly what I'm doing and it doesn't feel good.
But I'm not ready to share everything yet. With anyone.
A few minutes later and he's pulling us into the main lot at the beach. He maneuvers the truck into a space and cuts the engine. He jumps out of the truck, and I get out on my side and follow him around to the bed. He takes his shirt off and tosses it into the bed. His chest and shoulders are massive and I try not to stare.
He unbuttons his shorts. “I didn't bring anything, so I'll just go naked. Cool?”
“What?” I say. “No. I told you—”
He lets his shorts fall to the ground.
And he's wearing a pair of gray board shorts underneath.
He laughs. “Your face. Amazing.”
I can't help but laugh. “Asshole.” I pull off my shorts and T-shirt and toss them in the bed next to his clothes.
He pulls the long, blue board out of the bed first. “It's made of this kind of hard foam. You probably want to carry it over your head.”
He hands it to me and it's awkward, but I manage to get it up over my head. He slides out another board and it's much shorter and looks like it's seen a lot of time in the water. He tucks it under his right arm and closes up the tailgate. I follow him toward the sand, balancing the board on top of my head, trying not to bump into anything as we cross the lot.
He leads me to a relatively flat spot in the sand and sets his board down. He takes the board off of my head and lays it down on the sand.
“Lay down on it,” he says.
I get down and get myself on top of it.
“Scoot up,” he says. “So that you're just short of the middle.”
“Now, act like you're doing a push-up.”
“What?”
“Get your arms in the spot you'd put them if you were going to do a push-up,” he explains. “Then push yourself up. Don't worry about your feet yet.”
I get myself up awkwardly.
“Now get your feet under you.”
It's even more awkward but now I'm squatting on the board.
“Okay. Now do that all at once. In like one smooth motion.”
I look at him. “You're kidding.”
He rolls his eyes and motions for me to get off the board. I step off on to the sand. He slides onto the board and lays flat for a moment, then pops to his feet in one easy motion. He looks at me. “See?”
“Uh, sure,” I tell him. “I can't do that.”
“Yeah, you can,” he says, stepping off. “Try it again.”
I try it six more times. It looks nowhere near what he did but I at least get the hang of it.
“Okay,” he says. “You ready to go out?”
“You tell me.”
He laughs. “It'll be fine. Come on.” He picks up my board.
“What about your board?” I ask.
“I don't need it right now,” he says. “Just need to make sure you don't drown.”
Comforting.
The water is cold and I rise up on my tiptoes when it crashes over my ankles, the shock hitting me hard even though I knew it was coming.
Archer wades out into it like it's a hot tub. He drops the board on the surface of the water and turns around. “Are you coming?”
“Yes.”
He laughs and shakes his head. He guides the board a little bit further out with his hand on it until he's in water that's about waist-deep. I manage to work my way out, trying not to shiver.
“All I want you to do to start is get on it on your stomach,” he says. “I'll push you in. Just get used to laying on it.”
“Okay,” I tell him.
I steady the board beneath me and then slide onto it.
It promptly tips over to the side and I'm under the water.
I pop up, shaking the water from my head, spitting ocean from my lips.
“You alright?” he asks, trying not to laugh.